


Yes; We Were, Once

by paperclipbitch



Category: Desperate Romantics
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, this is the best show in the world don't even deny it okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I did <i>not</i> destroy your soul," Gabriel scoffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes; We Were, Once

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on LJ September 2009] Set eight years in the future after the series ended. I’ve read the book so I know how it all turned out, and I’ve referenced a few things in here. Just ugh I fucking love this showwwwww.

_So rivers merge in the perpetual sea_  
So luscious fruit must fall when over-ripe  
And so the consummated PRB.  
\- Christina Rossetti

Gabriel has not changed at _all_ in the last eight years; his eyes sparkle in exactly the same way they always did, and though he is older he is definitely not wiser and in any case his beauty is still intact. It seems hardly fair. Fred finds himself absurdly angry about this, though he has been desperately trying to put the muddled years with the PRBs safely behind him. But there is no such thing as ‘safe’ where Dante Gabriel Rossetti is concerned; or ‘appropriate’ apparently, since Gabriel seems to think that there is nothing wrong in embracing Fred in the street as though they are still friends and not men who have not spoken for almost a decade.

Fred presses his lips tight together for a moment, but manages to fumble up a: “How are you, Gabriel?”

He wishes he had not asked as Gabriel pours a veritable waterfall of words over him; he’s living with ‘Topsy’ and Jane, and he’s painting Fanny Cornforth again, and did Fred see his poetry book, and on and on and on.

Fred has changed a little in the last eight years; when Gabriel’s stream of self-absorption ends, he sighs and smiles a little bitterly and says:

“You really haven’t learned anything at all, have you, Gabriel?”

Gabriel’s smile is wolfish. “Oh, I’ve learned all kinds of things; I just choose to pretend I’ve forgotten them.”

Fred wants to say something along the lines of _that’s the same as not learning anything_ , but he knows that it is not.

Gabriel is scrutinising him, and Fred does not like the look he has on his face.

“I read your articles from time to time,” Gabriel tells him. “They got frightfully dull after you stopped communicating with _us_ , but I suppose you were proving a point.”

Gabriel will not ever understand the decision Fred made, and that is fine. He has reconciled himself with that already; though to tell the truth it did not take much _reconciliation_ , and his anger has kept him warm on more than one cold night.

“I’m glad to see you are well, Gabriel,” Fred says, after a moment of brittle silence. “I must be going.”

Attempting to extricate himself before it gets too late; he hates Gabriel with more passion than he ever admired him with in the first place, but he is perfectly aware of the power of Gabriel’s superhuman charisma. Although he would like to consider himself immune, he knows that he is not entirely out of danger _yet_.

“Come for a drink, Fred,” Gabriel says, catching Fred’s coat sleeve. “One drink, you can tell me what you’ve been doing.” The wolfish smile curls again. “Please.”

Fred cannot; of course he cannot. “One drink,” he grits.

Gabriel slings an arm around his shoulders, laughter ringing bright. “You know, Fred, you really haven’t learned anything either.”

=

The last time Fred saw Gabriel, they were indulging in a spot of _grave-robbing_ just after _covering up a suicide_. Being around Dante Gabriel Rossetti is a lot like being insane, and generally guarantees that mad, bad, dangerous things will happen. When he was young and idealistic and frighteningly naïve, Fred believed that Gabriel was _magical_. Now, he just finds him tiresome, though he supposes he should thank him one day for burning away every last shred of his naïveté until only bitterness remained. At the time, it seemed unforgivably harsh, but in the following years Fred has been grateful for his jaded attitude; it has saved him on several occasions. Well, as ‘saved’ as you can be, anyhow, when your soul has been utterly destroyed.

“I did _not_ destroy your soul,” Gabriel scoffs.

They have not had _one_ drink, they have had _many_ drinks, and Fred has paid for most of them even though Gabriel must be positively _rolling_ in tin, or at the very least must have enough to drink himself into a stupor. It is really like the last eight years have not happened at all; Fred half-expects Johnny or Maniac to come in at any minute.

“Did I?” Gabriel adds, looking a little worried now.

“Would you care if you had?” Fred asks.

“Of _course_ I would care,” Gabriel insists, managing to land a heavy hand on Fred’s shoulder on his third attempt. “I loved you like my own brother, Fred.”

“You drove the woman I loved to suicide,” Fred points out. “You helped me into hundreds of pounds of debt. You made my mother never speak to me again.”

Gabriel grimaces. “I’m hardly responsible for your mother’s actions, Fred.”

Fred rolls his eyes; Gabriel is an expert at weaselling out of anything and everything that looks as though it might be his fault.

“The world you dragged me into-”

“You were the one stalking us,” Gabriel reminds him mildly. He gets to his feet. “Another drink?”

Fred wants to say _no_. Wants to get up and walk away – all right, _stagger_ away – with the remains of his dignity while he still can.

“Everything is your fault in the end, Gabriel,” he mutters, and puts his head on the table. It is sticky, and smells of decades of alcohol sloshed onto its surface.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then,” Gabriel says cheerfully, and Fred closes his eyes as he leaves.

-

“I am disappointed in you, Fred Walters,” Annie says, with a toss of her head. Her hair is still in intricate curls, delicately arranged with a hat of the latest fashion angled carefully on top. It’s years later but she’s still beautiful; her beauty isn’t transient like Lizzie’s was, it wasn’t ever designed to be smothered. 

“Are you?” he asks, and hears unexpected sharpness in his voice. Heads turn, and God, Fred hasn’t had a problem keeping within the boundaries of propriety for the last eight years. It seems he has fallen back into all his old bad habits in a remarkably short space of time. He thinks he should be more upset than he really is.

Annie’s expression holds that same disdain it did the last time he ever saw her; the day she rejected his proposal and he, in turn, drove Lizzie to suicide and then threw his own life carelessly away.

“Coming in here with Rossetti draped across your shoulders,” she continues, lip curling just slightly, “like you’re still silly little arrogant boys.”

It stings, to hear her say it aloud; somehow the truth has always hurt more coming from Annie’s lips. She speaks better than ever; the last eight years have smoothed the cracks and rough edges from her accent. Fred remembers accompanying her to class after class, watching as Annie’s spine gradually straightened, her vowels and consonants became separately distinguishable, and her laughter became genteel. Now, Annie walks and talks like she’s been a lady all her life. He finds himself simultaneously admiring and hating her for it.

“It was an accident,” Fred tells her, and does not think about the flush that spread over her breasts as they fucked, the last traces of her rough, guttural giggles as her fingers tangled in his hair. He _does not_.

“I would not be talking to you if I thought it wasn’t,” Annie informs him crisply. “I didn’t think even you, Fred, were stupid enough to fall back in with him deliberately.” Her lips thin. “Rossetti is bad news.”

Fred marvels at her detachment; she speaks as though none of the past ever happened. Maybe for her, it really hasn’t; perhaps she has managed to shove it all behind her. If she has, she’s certainly done a better job than Fred ever has, but then Annie always had an air of determination that Fred sadly lacked.

After a pause that threatens to become uncomfortable, Fred ventures: “You’ve done well for yourself, Annie.”

“Mrs Thomson,” she corrects swiftly and oh yes; propriety. _That_ again.

“Mrs Thomson,” he agrees, the words sour on his tongue. He feels a bitter smile twitch his mouth. “You have more than I could ever have given you. More than _Hunt_ could ever have given you.”

Annie’s eyes blaze; there, he sees the old Annie Miller, the one who walked willingly to her own slaughter for love of her man. 

“I would slap you,” she tells him in a hard undertone.

“I know,” Fred tells her.

He has lost all interest in the paintings at this gallery showing; has even lost interest in Gabriel, who is sparkling drunkenly and arrogantly in another corner. All he can remember is bitterness and rejection, and he loved Annie once in a way that he can never admit, not even to himself.

Annie hesitates, seemingly mulling words over in her head. “You should get as far away from him as you can,” she advises. “Keep a safe distance.”

“Like you did?” Fred asks. He keeps his tone falsely jovial, carefully not to draw attention. Luckily, Rossetti is keeping the attention of half the room single-handedly. “I saw _Helen Of Troy_ , Annie.”

“ _Mrs Thomson_ ,” she grits, cheeks flushing. Fred wonders if she ever misses who she was, or if she enjoys her place in society, smothered but safe. She does not attempt to defend herself and Fred finds himself feeling oddly guilty.

“I have taken up enough of your time,” he fumbles, trying for _proper_ and no doubt failing miserably. Annie holds out her hand and he kisses it, lingering a second too long. The smallest of genuine smiles curls Annie’s lips.

“It was good to see you, Fred,” she murmurs.

“No, it wasn’t,” he replies, trying to tell her that she doesn’t need to be polite to _him_ , doesn’t need to offer meaningless platitudes.

Her eyes flash. “Yes, it was.”

This is the only way she will ever tell him that she misses him, that maybe part of her loved him once too. Fred smiles weakly, and turns back to Gabriel. He could leave now, walk away from this world again. He isn’t happy here, but he wasn’t happy anywhere else either. He grits his teeth, and walks back over to the man he cannot label as his friend anymore, but he has not yet worked out how to reclassify him.

“You should know better by now, Mr Walters,” Annie sighs behind him. She sounds genuinely sad.

-

A few days later, Fred receives a dignified note asking him to afternoon tea with John Everett and Effie Millais; the edges of the card are gilt and the words are written in a flowing hand that he does not recognise; though he knows all too well the scrawl on the back that says: _Rossetti is not invited!_ His lips twist into a half-smile. So the other PRBs eventually tired of Gabriel too. He wishes he could say that he’s surprised.

Johnny and Effie have had what seems like dozens of children, and everything about them is relaxed and happy and respectable. There are still whispers about _Mrs Millais_ – Fred is still in society enough to hear all the good gossip – but they’ve managed to separate themselves from all that scandal. Gabriel hasn’t changed at all, whereas John seems to have changed entirely. It almost seems like a practical joke that John was ever part of the PRB in the first place. Sitting there looking happy and smug and rich, it’s as though Johnny never fell from grace; never spent those years looking for approval. The nation have taken John Everett Millais to their hearts, and Fred cannot help hating him a little for that.

They make small talk; cheap attempts that taste sour on Fred’s tongue and which feel hopelessly inadequate. There’s a thinness to John’s mouth when he talks about Gabriel, though he still seems to be friends with Hunt. Fred finds it almost a relief to discover that there are some things that acquaintance with Gabriel _cannot_ kill off; he was beginning to wonder. In any case, Johnny isn’t Johnny any more, really; he’s done so well for himself that it stings, and Fred realises halfway down his first cup of tea that he doesn’t really want to drink anyway that they no longer have anything in common but some rather shameful memories; ones that John has managed to put behind him, ones that Fred is incapable of ignoring, much as he wants to.

“This isn’t going to work,” he says, putting the teacup down so hard hot liquid sloshes over the sides into the saucer.

He sees the first flash of genuine emotion he’s seen from John all day streak across his face; something like sadness and resignation. A moment of genuine pain.

“I’m sorry, Fred,” John murmurs.

Effie just looks confused, but she was never caught in the tangle like the rest of them were. She lingered on the edges, and found joy far too quickly.

John walks Fred to the door; Fred wonders if he should feign an appointment, pretend he has somewhere to be. But John knows him too well for that; or, at the very least, John _knew_ him.

“Good luck, Fred,” John tells him, and then abruptly wraps his arms around Fred in the tightest of brotherly hugs. There are too many emotions in it, and Fred hugs Johnny back, hugs him back with all the things they do not have any more.

“I won’t wish you luck,” he murmurs, when they part, unable to look John in the face. “I won’t wish you luck because you do not need it.”

He’s halfway down the street before he hears John close the front door.

-

Gabriel laughs long and hard and loud. Fred’s eyes are blurring; he’s had nothing but John’s tea all day and the alcohol is churning in his stomach.

“It’s not funny,” he sighs. “You’ve made it impossible for me to spend any time in polite society.”

Gabriel’s eyes are still dancing with amusement; Fred doesn’t want to look. “Good,” he says, as though it should be obvious, “why the fuck would you _want_ to spend time in polite society? Why would you want to be like _them_ , Fred?”

 _Because I have had enough of being like you_. Fred doesn’t say it; can’t say it. Gabriel will only have an answer ready that will sound rational until Fred is alone and actually able to think about it. 

“I’m not a crazed genius like you, Gabriel,” he mutters, running his thumbnail down a scratch on the table. “I need to communicate with people and you’ve made me forget how to do that. You’ve made me not _want_ to do that.”

Fred doesn’t know why he’s trying to push Gabriel into a guilty confession of some kind. He will not get an apology and he knows firsthand that Gabriel only feels remorse when people are dead, and even then it doesn’t last particularly long.

“I really don’t see what you’re complaining about,” Gabriel says, but his tone is absent; Fred follows his line of vision to find that Gabriel is staring at a woman on the other side of the room. Her head is tipped back and she is laughing; she has the masses of hair that always seem to attract Gabriel and a truly stunning figure just like – oh. Oh, it actually _is_ Fanny Cornforth. She turns her head, gives Gabriel a brilliant grin. Gabriel grins back; Fred wants to ask why he cannot just be content with Jane Burden, with stealing her from her husband in full view of everyone, but asking Rossetti to try being self-aware would be like asking the sun not to rise. 

Fred sighs heavily, and finds himself glad that Lizzie is not alive to see this.

“You overthink things, Fred,” Gabriel says at last, when Fanny has flounced off. “You always did. So you don’t fit in with people anymore; so you despise them. What of it? We are _better_ than _all_ of them.”

He believes it, for a moment. Believes it the way he always did.

“Fuck _you_ , Gabriel,” Fred sighs after a moment.

Gabriel’s mouth jerks; he’s heard this a hundred times and always reacts with amusement, Fred knows, but a moment later he’s looking almost thoughtful.

“Would that help?” he asks. “Because if it would, you could, you know.”

Fred has honestly never consciously it, and it feels as though his stomach has become ice. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Just- what- _Jesus_.”

Gabriel’s grin is cruel, curved obscenely as though cut with a razor. His offer is serious, Fred can tell, but he is mostly making it because he’s a bastard.

“I am going now,” Fred says.

“Think about it,” Gabriel calls after him, the words choked with laughter.

Fred realises, when he’s out on the cold street, that Gabriel has distracted him perfectly from their argument. Which was probably the whole idea.

-

A week later, Fred is having breakfast with William and Jane Morris. Jane looks bored, eyes fixed on something outside the window, and William has always been a man of few words. He wonders if they have actually said anything to each other since they were married; but then they _are_ living with Gabriel, who has more than enough words for the three of them. Maniac repeatedly kicked Gabriel out of his lodgings after mere _hours_ ; Fred is sort of sadistically interested in how William and Jane have managed to put up with Gabriel for _eight years_. Then he catches sight of the smallest of smiles lingering at the corner of Jane’s mouth, and supposes that he knows how _she_ copes with it all.

Gabriel comes clattering downstairs, telling Jane that the studio is all set up – “I’m painting her as Proserpine!” he tells Fred eagerly, though there’s an edge to his expression that Fred refuses to acknowledge – and the two of them giggle their way up the stairs. Fred feels he can safely assume that there will be no painting happening for at least the next hour.

William sighs and pours himself another cup of coffee. Fred wonders how he can stand this; living in this house where he means less than nothing but is nonetheless needed to give this all the pretence of propriety.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Fred asks at last.

William looks startled for a moment, as though he’s entirely unused to conversation. Then he seems to pull himself together. “Not particularly.” His mouth twists into something like a grimace. “I don’t really have anything to say about Dante Gabriel Rossetti.”

“You invited him into your life,” Fred hears himself say. “That’s the worst part.” He sighs, eyes on the cutlery. “I did too. I thought... well, that’s Gabriel for you, anyway. He’s like a flame and we’re all moths, and by the time you’ve been drawn close enough to realise you’re getting burned, you cannot get away. You’re _trapped_.”

William is watching him, not saying anything at all. Fred swallows, and knows he should stop; Gabriel is upstairs fucking Jane in the name of _art_ , and Morris does not need any cheap helpless advice. He’s remained the same as he was when he first stumbled into the lives of the PRB. Fred hasn’t met Ned again, but he’s heard the stories. About Ned’s long-suffering wife, about Ned’s bewitching mistress who tried to kill herself. Gabriel was _proud_ of that, as though the fact his protégés were destroying themselves as surely as he had destroyed himself was a _good_ thing.

“You invite him into your life and then you have to stand back and watch as he ruins it,” Fred mutters.

William frowns, incredulous. “Are you supposed to be _helping_?”

Fred shrugs. “No.”

Something approaching a smile skids across William’s mouth. “Good. Because you’re really _not_.”

-

“Mr Walters.” Annie’s smile is brittle, bright; her eyes are on Gabriel. “Still refusing to see sense, I see.”

Fred is too tired and too bitter to even take umbrage at her tone. “Mrs Thomson,” he murmurs, with a deferential bow. He sighs. “No. Still decidedly blind.”

“Everyone else had the common sense to get away from him,” Annie murmurs, keeping her tone low because who knows who could be listening to them. 

“Without him I’m nothing,” Fred tells her, because he has come to realise this over the last few tangled weeks. “Well, with him I’m nothing, but it is less noticeable.”

Annie sighs, genuine misery flickering across her pretty features. “Fred,” she sighs. “Oh Fred, you’re not nothing.”

“I don’t have painting or a fortune of my own or a marriage to escape into,” Fred tells her. “I’ve got Gabriel.”

Most people are gazing at the paintings on the gallery walls; Annie’s husband seems more interested in the wine on offer, but Fred cannot hold it against him. His own interest in art has become increasingly warped over the last few years. 

“Please,” Annie says softly, and the brittle woman she was when they last met has melted a little. Fred was happy with her for months; even when he was pining over Lizzie, he loved spending time with Annie. And perhaps, when they fell into the bed together, it was less about Hunt and Lizzie than either of them can ever admit.

None of that matters any more. He wishes that it still did, but it does not. Nothing matters now.

“I don’t even know if I _can_ get away from him anymore,” Fred sighs.

“Promise me you’ll try.” Annie’s eyes are bright, earnest. She wants what’s best for him, he reflects with something approaching surprise. It has been some time since anyone wanted what was _best_ for him.

“I’ll try,” Fred says. 

Annie blinks; for a moment her eyes shimmer, and then she turns away from him, gliding across the room to her husband’s side. Fred wonders if he’ll ever see her again. She’s done all right for herself; he hates her less for this than he used to.

“Want to get a drink?” Gabriel asks, when they’re finally leaving the gallery. “I have some friends who could-”

“No,” Fred says, and the word is ambrosia on his tongue. It feels so good he does it again: “No, Gabriel.”

Gabriel sighs. “You tried this before,” he points out.

“I did,” Fred agrees. “I walked away from you before. I know I can do it, now. It is a tried and tested method.”

“You sound ridiculous,” Gabriel scoffs.

“You’re the ridiculous one,” Fred hears himself snap. “You are selfish and cruel and you pull people into your web like a poisonous spider, then watch their lives disintegrate around you. Everything you touch turns to shit, Gabriel. You want what you cannot have and once you have it you cast it aside. And you call all this a perfect way of life.”

Gabriel is sneering now, cold and sharp and it makes him look ugly. “You say all that and yet you cannot bring yourself to leave my company.”

“No,” Fred agrees, helpless laughter bubbling in his voice. “I know. It is entirely possible that I am in love with you, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, or at the very least I am as bewitched as poor Fanny, who follows your every footstep, or Jane, who married William because you told her to and then sits around waiting for your return.” Gabriel is silent, expression thoughtful. “I know this,” Fred continues, “and I’m leaving now.”

Gabriel laughs, harsh and cold; the sound echoes off the surrounding buildings. He’s ugly underneath, Gabriel; beneath the sparkling charm and magical all-consuming charisma and that beauty that does not seem to know how to fade, he is _ugly_ , deformed, twisted. People work this out about him and they go away to live their own lives, untouched and untainted. But most of them manage not to stray back. Fred has the horrible suspicion that he is as drawn to Gabriel as he is because of this fundamental repulsiveness.

“You’ll be back,” Gabriel shouts after him. “How long will you be gone _this_ time?”

“Not long enough,” Fred murmurs to himself, and turns the corner.


End file.
